


Periapsis

by ampliflyer (withlightning)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood Kink, Gore, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/ampliflyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny would burn the world for Patrick, would kill every last living soul and Patrick would only have to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Periapsis

**Author's Note:**

> A) Read the tags. After reading them read them again. If you're looking for a light-hearted fluff, this is NOT the story. If you have problems with gore, backspace immediately. If you're along for the (short) ride, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> B) Glory goes to [bottledminx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/photoclerk/pseuds/bottledminx) and [pinkosicko](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkosicko/pseuds/pinkosicko) because without them this would have been a mess (messier than it is).

“Sometimes I think there’s so much more than this – me, here,” Patrick says, staring up at the ceiling. Jonny holds onto Patrick’s hip, hard enough to bruise and kisses the teeth-marked spot on Patrick’s ribs, anticipation flowing in his veins and he thinks, _say it, just say it_. 

But Patrick inhales deeply, huffs and says, “But that’s just stupid, right?”

No, Jonny thinks, no it isn’t. He says nothing. Patrick isn’t ready.

But he will be.

* * *

* * *

Jonny will look at Patrick and think, I made him. Because he did; he did make Patrick see, made Patrick treat the darkness inside him with the respect it deserves.

Jonny gave Patrick his history, his methods, his patience and willpower, and in return Patrick gave Jonny his body and his soul – and oh, it’s glorious, it’s magnificent; all the things they can achieve together, side by side, living inside each other.

* * *

* * *

The first time Jonny lets Patrick see, he knows that Patrick’s following him. He knows Patrick will find him and he knows Patrick won’t run.

He isn’t disappointed.

After the man stops squirming and his last rattling breaths die down, Jonny turns around with the blade still in hand, palms sticky-slicked with blood. Patrick’s there; half-hidden in the shadows.

Adrenaline runs through Jonny’s body, prickling along his skin and he feels light, feels free, and the way Patrick looks at him wide-eyed and open-mouthed is a sight to behold.

Jonny would burn the world for Patrick, would kill every last living soul and Patrick would only have to ask.

It’s Patrick who steps forward, one step after another, and the closer he comes, the more Jonny has to bite down on the relieved smile – because of the kill, because of Patrick, because of the kill and Patrick and _him_ , finally together – he can taste blood, feels it drying on his skin, smells it in the air heavy and addictive like the best drug man has ever created.

Patrick stops in front of him, not even glancing at the blade Jonny’s still holding; trusting Jonny. And it’s more than that; it’s in the way Patrick’s pupils are dilated and his breathing is as heavy as Jonny’s that makes Jonny realize Patrick’s getting off on this, that this excites Patrick _exactly_ like it excites Jonny.

“Sharpy said you were special, but…” Patrick swallows audibly and reaches slowly for Jonny’s free hand, fingers sliding on his skin before curling to grip his wrist. Licking his cracked lips Patrick says, “Wow.”

* * *

* * *

People always tell Jonny how nice and polite he is, how honest and _good_ he seems, but Patrick never said anything like that when they met. Patrick said nothing at all, but the small, knowing curve of his lips told more than million words ever could.

For the first time in Jonny’s life he wasn’t able to figure someone out; Patrick was a mystery Jonny _had_ to solve, to lure out in the open only to attract into the darkness. Patrick with his light, curly hair and mirthful, blue eyes had so much more in him than he let people see.

Jonny saw it all. All the potential, all the possible ways they could end and begin.

* * *

* * *

Hands wrapped around Patrick’s jugular, Patrick will look up at him, offering more skin, more space – bearing his perfect, bright and dark-stained soul for Jonny to take – but Jonny never will. Even if everything else in the world is for Jonny to take, to steal, to kill, to destroy; Patrick isn’t.

Only against Patrick’s skin can Jonny whisper how scared and excited he was while performing the first time, how it made his blood hot inside him, how he wanted to yell in victory because he had found a release, a way to get a slice of heaven on earth.

Only against Patrick’s throat his fingers will itch but he knows he’ll never – he’ll _never_ – because Patrick is the most sacred of the lives he has shaped and shifted, created and destroyed – and he’s precious enough to never let go.

* * *

* * *

“Show me,” Patrick says. His voice is deep and rich and devastatingly certain. “Show me how.”

Jonny does.

* * *

* * *

The first time Patrick performs he’s deadly calm, and his eyes are intense enough to make Jonny suck in his breath.

Patrick moves with confidence, with purpose, like a man born to fulfil his destiny. Jonny wants to grab him, to claim him with fingerprint-shaped bruises all over his body because Patrick is his and he will _never_ be anyone else’s.

The edge of the blade glints under the fluorescent light a moment before Patrick slides it on the vulnerable skin of a throat with precision, his long fingers and delicate wrist manoeuvring the knife with concentration, as if he’s creating the perfect art – and he is. It’s gorgeous and Jonny swallows down the pride burning in his chest, the flames in his stomach.

Patrick’s hands are covered in blood, thick and bittersweet and Jonny wants to lick his fingers clean, to suck the life of someone else from his fingers, joint by joint.

The heat in Patrick’s eyes tells Jonny he wants him to.

* * *

* * *

“I love you,” Patrick says after the third time they’ve killed together, fusing together like an entity never before discovered; flawless, perfect, meant to be.

Jonny walks out of the bathroom, fog clearing into the crisp air as he drips on the carpet, not bothering with a towel. He stops and stares at Patrick.

Patrick looks up at him from the corner of the bed where he’s sitting, fresh from the shower, skin pink-tinged and beautiful, and he says, “I said I love you.”

“I heard you,” Jonny replies, clears his painfully tight throat. Jesus, he knows Patrick loves him, it’s as clear to him as his own name or the city he lives in or the unforgettable day he first took a life, felt the power in his hands and never wanted to stop.

Patrick doesn’t look expectant, doesn’t look like he’s waiting for a reply, for an affirmation. He looks like he just wanted to make sure Jonny heard, that Jonny knows and that’s enough for him.

Jonny says nothing. He isn’t sure if he’d be able to say anything amidst the hammering heart and icy-hot electricity careening through his body. Instead he pushes Patrick down on the bed, drops down on his knees between Patrick’s open legs and shows him what he means.

* * *

* * *

Jonny had never been in love, never _wanted_ to love anyone because feelings complicate things; they make routine messy, they cloud your judgment, haze your head. He never wanted to be cherished, to be devoted, needed.

But that was before he met Patrick.

* * *

* * *

“It’s simple; only people who would hurt other people, who already have hurt other people and who, most importantly, would keep hurting people.”

Patrick mulls it over, eyebrows drawn together. “And this thing—“

“It’s vital,” Jonny says. Because it’s the only thing that determines who lives and who doesn’t. Not a guideline but a rule. A way to contain himself and let the darkness out, a way to feel complete, fulfilled.

Patrick smiles wryly with an edge. “Vital. Clever.”

Jonny raises an eyebrow, wants to tackle Patrick to the ground and kiss him breathless and bright-eyed, but he doesn’t because this is important. This is what has kept Jonny alive all this time.

It will keep him and Patrick alive now.

* * *

* * *

The second time Patrick wants to come along. He stands a bit farther away, eyes intent on the technique; the way Jonny twists his wrist, puts enough strength behind the move and presses evenly as he slides the blade across the skin, the veins, cutting in deep.

The alleyway is dark and badly lit, damp and deserted, and even Jonny couldn’t imagine a more picturesque scene in which to thrive and to destroy. The way the blackness pools under the body, steadily growing and then spreading in rivulets, racing down the asphalt has Patrick make an aborted sound in his throat, has his eyes glued to the gleam of the blood under the moonlight.

Jonny turns carefully, steps closer to Patrick. His hands are wet, shaking slightly with the rush of adrenaline and Patrick looks at them, slack-jawed with awe. Patrick’s face is pale in the cold light, curls framing his face in silver – and when he lifts his head to stare up at Jonny, his eyes are brighter than ever.

Something twists in Jonny’s chest, something huge and alien, all-consuming, and he touches Patrick. Thumbing Patrick’s cheek, he feels the softness, the deadliness wrapped in smiles, leaving a crimson stain behind.

Patrick holds his breath and Jonny feels like the time is frozen, that there’s just the two of them left; two people determined to change the history, to save humanity and enjoy doing it.

Jonny takes another step closer and kisses Patrick hard and deep, tongues battling briefly before moving in unison, as if they’ve always known each other, were always destined to become _them_. 

Jonny doesn’t believe in destiny but he believes in him and Patrick.

* * *

* * *

Jonny will look back and think there could have been so many ways for them to play their part, so many ways to do things differently.

He will look at Patrick and think, _it was worth it, all of it_.

* * *

* * *

When Patrick is on his knees, mouth hot and sweet and so, so gentle on Jonny, he thinks Patrick could suck out the darkness inside him, could take Jonny apart easily and never put him back together.

With Patrick around him, in him deep enough, he thinks Patrick is all he’ll ever need to exist.

* * *

* * *

They work together methodically, decisive and precise. Patrick is good, better than good, great even – but Jonny could teach him to be better still. Patrick has raw talent and power, the drive to become the best, and there are moments when Jonny just has to take moment to admire the way Patrick handles himself; disciplined and determined.

Each time they walk away with one less threat in the world, lifeless on the corner of a street, in an abandoned warehouse, on a dark alley, they become something _more_ , something stronger.

There are times when Jonny can’t remember how his life was before Patrick. Perhaps, he thinks, he can’t remember because it wasn’t anything worth remembering. Because now, _now_ it’s the warmth of Patrick’s skin that burns him instead of the cold blade; now it’s what comes _after_ he drops the metal that makes him feel branded and alive.

* * *

* * *

One slip, that Jonny realizes later, after they’re lying on top of the musty bedspread, sated and content, is all _they_ need to put together the pieces.

One town turns to another, lifeless and grey, bleeding into the same scenery as they’re chased by the red and blue lighted cars; hiding in the dark, running, driving, fighting for their whole existence.

“I’m sorry,” Jonny whispers, his arms wrapped around Patrick’s slender back, body heat seeping in from where they’re touching. “I’m sorry,” he says again and again, kisses the slope of Patrick’s neck, fits his mouth around Patrick’s shoulder.

“I’m not,” Patrick says, strong and real. He lifts his head, settles his palm on Jonny’s cheek and says, “I’m glad I’m with you. I’m _glad_.”

Jonny stares into his eyes, sees his innocence and brutality, sees blue and endless affection, love for life and justice, and says, “Me too.”

* * *

* * *

“I think I was born like this,” Jonny confesses.

Patrick is quiet for a while, breathing in and out against Jonny’s chest, until he says, “I think I was born when I met you.”

* * *

* * *

“We’re not going to run anymore,” Patrick says when they’ve settled in at another motel in another nameless town, after having driven through this night and the night before and the night before that.

They both know they’re running out of time, that they’re not alone, that this is it; the ending and the beginning, once again. Jonny hears the shuffling of feet outside their room.

“This is who we are, don’t you see?” Patrick asks, eyes shining, one cheek dimpling.

Jonny looks at him long and hard, takes in everything that makes him want to scream and kiss and fuck and kill, makes him want to _die for_ , and he thinks with pride, _I taught him well._

The windows are broken; gas thrown in, and Jonny looks at Patrick until his eyes are useless, burning, unseen, and he kisses Patrick, hard and fast.

_This is who we are._

Curling around Patrick he holds on hard enough to bruise. And he doesn’t intend to let go.

The door comes down.


End file.
